My Fingerprint Was on the Bottle, but I Wasn’t on the Hook Chapter 10

My Fingerprint Was on the Bottle, but I Wasn’t on the Hook Chapter 10

Two months later, the ruling came down.

Derek Foster: murder in the second degree. Life without the possibility of parole.

His mother, Patricia Foster: conspiracy to commit murder. Fifteen years.

When the verdict was read, Derek stood in the courtroom thinner, eyes sunken. He glanced at me once. There was hatred in that look, and resentment, but mostly a hollow disbelief—like he still couldn’t compute how it all collapsed.

I gave him nothing back.

Patricia sobbed on the defendant’s side, still hissing at Derek, “This is your fault. You couldn’t even get one thing right—”

Even now, her fury was about him failing, not about what they’d done.

I understood then that neither of them would ever believe they were wrong. In their minds, they just ran into a wife who was harder to break than they’d planned.

The divorce decree came down the same day.

As the faultless party, I was awarded full marital assets. The forty thousand dollars was ordered returned by Amber Caldwell in its entirety.

Amber didn’t show up to court. Word was she’d already given birth and was living alone in that eastside house with a mortgage still hanging over it.

—

The down payment would be clawed back, the loan was still in Derek’s name, and her future looked about as bright as a collapsed roof.

That wasn’t my problem anymore.

As for Grandma’s estate—Derek’s forfeiture of inheritance kicked in, and the assets passed according to her last will and testament.

Yes. Grandma had a will.

I’d been the one who went with her to the notary a year ago. She squeezed my hand that day and said, “Honey, I know who truly cares about me. This house is going to you.”

I tried to tell her it didn’t feel right, taking something like that.

She patted the back of my hand. “What’s not right about it? You’ve been more family to me than my own grandson ever was.”

Even now, those words made my eyes sting.

Grandma saw people clearly.

Walking out of the Fairview County Courthouse, the sun was golden and warm. Sophie was waiting at the bottom of the courthouse steps, two iced coffees in hand.

“It’s over?”

“Yeah.”

“Then let’s go celebrate.”

I took the iced coffee and tasted it. It was sweet. Perfect.

—

I paused on the courthouse steps and glanced back at the doors one last time.

Three years of marriage. A setup from the start.

I lost Grandma. I lost years of my life. I lost the ability to trust someone without reservation.

But I was still alive. Still standing. Still able to walk forward.

My phone screen lit up and the popup text returned one final time.

[Congratulations. You survived.]

[From here on out, walk your own path.]

[Don’t look back.]

I stared at those words and let a small smile break through. Then I turned off the screen and walked into the sun with Sophie beside me.

And I didn’t look back.